By Dianora


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This story is rated NC-17. Please stop now if you're under 17 or sensative to adult-themed material.


I want to be touched.

Is that such an awful thing, really? Should I be condemned for moments of weakness, when I ignore the cataclysm enveloping us and instead dream of a strong hand touching me in the dark? Of warm, soft lips
touching mine, of hot fingertips caressing, teasing, inflaming?

But even more than the need to be touched, is the need to touch. I want to feel hardened chest muscles beneath my fingers, the firm planes of a man's abdomen, the soft down of his hair. I want to smell that smell so unique to men, that undefinable maleness, that musky yet sweet scent that drives me just a little mad. I want to breathe it in and out and feel it course through me. I want to feel the heat that fills the air when a man hovers over me, his forearms guarding my chest, his legs framing mine.

I want to feel a hard cock beneath my hands, the heat of it, the silkiness, the sensation of life pulsing with my grip. I want to feel that cock inside of me, filling me until I could burst or split in two.

And I want to forget.

I want to forget that my world is gone, my family is gone, my life is gone, disintegrated with the hopes and dreams of millions. I want to forget that the dream of a restored Republic won’t hold me at night. I want to lose myself in heady oblivion, immerse myself in orgasm.

Instead I wrap myself in distance, cloak myself in cold, as if somehow that will help. Maybe if I work very hard at being alone, I’ll be too busy to realize what that means. In some strange way it’s as if aloneness has become my companion, the only feeling that I can count on, that is always with me.

I wonder, sometimes, if Han knows. If he knows that it’s his face I see before me as I lay in bed, his strong arms I imagine, his heat that I feel when I close my eyes and fantasize about what I want to do to him, what I want him to do to me. There are times, when he looks at me, that I think he does. When his eyes cut through me and goose bumps rise on my flesh because I’m convinced he was able to see into my dreams the night before. I think I hate him, then.

But later, when I am back in my room, in my bed, in the dark, I love him. In my mind I love him with my body and my soul and there is nothing but our bodies, joined, our sweat and our breath and our yearning.

I know that these are the not the most important things. I know that an Empire must be liberated, villains must be toppled, and liberty restored. I want these things with the core of my being, would gladly die for them.

But sometimes I want more.



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